The Phoenix
by castiello
Summary: Jane goes down in flames.


**The Phoenix**  
>by castiello<p>

I.

His heart is on fire – a flaming red bird, spiraling down out of the sky. Flapping, shrieking, insane with heat and dying as it beats its wings against his ribcage. Burning him up from the inside out. Burning him _alive_.

He stumbles, almost goes down, then catches himself at the last second. No, mustn't fall…He knows what he needs. It's close, he can hear it. He just has to _get_ there…

Another step, and he starts to cough. Black smoke is filling his lungs, filling his whole chest. It won't let him breathe. He can't breathe. He's _choking_…

This time, he does fall. He hits the ground hard, and so does the bird. It's still alive inside him, still screaming as it cooks, its feathers already baked away to nothing. It is a mutant, now – a hideous, charred, eyeless thing, crawling along on blackened stumps. But still alive…It's still _alive_…

He pushes himself off the ground. His hands are red against the bone-white sand. He is red all over – skin and clothes painted with it. The taste of it in his mouth. His lungs full of smoke. But still alive...still alive…

He begins to crawl along, toward the sound, stripping the red off as he moves. Jacket, vest, shirt, pants, all left behind him like cloudy-eyed fish on the sand. The dying bird's wails fill the air. They fill _him_, swelling inside his throat and pouring out his mouth, but he's almost there, almost there…

Cold froth teases his fingers, washing off some of the paint before slipping away, sliding back the way it came. _Leaving him behind_. He lurches after the departing foam, wet mud sucking at his hands and kneecaps. He knows what he needs. Only one thing can put out the fire.

He crawls into the ocean.

II.

"Mr. Jane?"

Wherever he is right now, the air smells funky-monkey. There's a weight inside his chest, and his eyes are glued shut. Strange…

"Mr. Jane, can you hear me?"

The woman's voice comes from somewhere above him. Concerned, gentle, completely unfamiliar. She knows his name, but that part isn't so strange – he _is _a bit of a celebrity.

"Mr. Jane, I need you to open your eyes."

Jane decides that the woman is a little annoying.

_I can't_, he tries to tell her, but the sound that comes out is like a dying bird. He clears his throat roughly, takes a deep breath, and a new wave of funky-monkey washes over him, awakening brain cells and memories. Ammonia, rubbing alcohol, bleach, menthol. He winces. _Hospital…_

"Can you open your eyes?" the nurse persists.

"I'd rather not." His voice is a rasp, but at least it sounds semi-human this time. His chest still feels odd, like a large rock is lodged inside it – cold and hard and heavy. His head aches. Jane wonders if he was in a car accident…and then he wonders something else, something that rips his eyes open right past the glue –

"Where's my wife?" He sits up straight, breathing fast. Jane scans the whole room, but she isn't here – not even her purse.

"Mr. Jane, you need to take it easy..." The red-haired nurse attempts to push him back onto the mattress. He resists her like a mule.

"Where is my wife?" Jane repeats. "And my daughter? Were they in the accident? Are they hurt?"

The nurse stares at him, her mouth stuck partway open. "L-Let me go get the doctor for you. He can tell you mo—"

"No. _You_ tell me."

"Mr. Jane, I'm not supposed to—"

"I don't care. Tell me anyway."

The nurse sighs. "All I can say," she begins slowly, "is that no one else was brought to this hospital at the time you were admitted."

The statement is true – and yet, also a lie. Jane's eyes narrow. "What else do you know? Were they taken to a different hospital?"

She raises her hands in a helpless gesture, backing steadily toward the door. "Just, please, let me go get Dr. Scanlon. I'll bring him right back here, I promise…" And she disappears into the hallway.

Jane swings his legs off the bed and starts picking at the tape on his wrist. He isn't waiting around for Dr. Scanlon. Jane can get the answers himself, quicker and easier. Grimacing, he slides the IV needle out and rises on unsteady legs. He's almost to the door when two men come striding through it, one wearing a lightning-white lab coat that screams "I'm smarter than you (and I make more money, too)", the other donning a long brown trench coat that hollers "Detective" almost just as loud.

The three men barely avoid a collision. Lab Coat gapes at Jane, looking horrified. "Mr. Jane, you should not be up – you need to get back in bed."

"No, I need to find my family…"

The doctor and the cop share a look. They each take Jane by an arm, leading him back to the bed.

"You must take it easy, Mr. Jane," Lab Coat instructs, his voice gentle but his grip like steel. "Just lie back, now…"

Jane sinks onto the mattress and glares at the men standing over him. He doesn't like being bullied.

"I'm Dr. Scanlon," Lab Coat says, once Jane is situated. "I've been overseeing your case since you were admitted last night." The doctor holds out a hand, which Jane pointedly ignores. Scanlon clears his throat and continues, "Now that you're awake, I'm going to check you out, and then Detective Perry here would like to ask you some questions – but _only_ if you're feeling up to it, all right?"

Jane says nothing.

"So, how _are _you feeling?"

"I feel fine. Where's my family?"

The doctor sighs and takes out a penlight. He unapologetically blinds Jane with it. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Friday. Tell me where my wife and daughter are."

The doctor checks Jane's blood pressure, frowning. "Do you have any idea why you're here?"

"No, but _you_ obviously do, so why don't you share with the class?"

Scanlon chews his lip indecisively, refusing to meet Jane's eye.

Jane turns to Detective Perry instead. "Okay, your turn."

The detective's face is pale and grim. "Mr. Jane, you were found on the beach late last night, naked and in a state of shock, over six miles from your home. Do you remember how you came to be in that condition?"

Jane stares at him. "No…"

"Do you remember anything at all about last night?"

Jane thinks back. "I had a guest spot on a talk show...I did a few readings, talked about the spirit world, my police work, Red John – "

Perry and Scanlon both visibly cringe at the name, and Jane wonders if there's been another killing. If there has, it will be all over the news. Jane glances up to where the television would normally be, but sees only a bare metal arm jutting from the ceiling.

"And then what?" the detective prompts.

"And then…I went home."

"You actually _remember_ going home?"

Jane frowns, skimming over the images from last night. "I remember walking across the parking lot. I remember getting in my car, and then…"

And then he hits a wall. Some massive brick obstruction, too tall to climb over, too thick to break through. Jane examines the blockage curiously, mentally slapping his hands against it. He has never encountered a wall like this before. Not in _his _mind. Not ever…

"…That's all I can remember," he says finally. "Anybody care to fill in the rest?"

The cop and the doctor share another dark, full-of-secret-meaning look, and Jane has had enough.

"Look," he growls, "I can see what's going on here. Neither one of you will look me in the eye. There's no television in this room, and you've instructed the nurses not to give me any information regarding my family. I already know it's bad, so just _tell_ me."

Scanlon is shaking his head. "That is _not_ a good idea –"

Jane shifts his gaze to Perry, tuning the doctor out.

The detective sighs. He looks down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. Then, finally, he looks Jane square in the eye. "Last night, your wife and daughter were – "

"_Detective_," Scanlon warns sharply, "I think it's time for you to leave. This patient has been through a severe trauma, and I won't have you upsetting him further. Please step outside."

"No, _you _step outside," Jane tells the doctor. "And _you_ – " Jane's eyes lock on Perry "- you stay."

The detective looks back and forth between Jane and the doctor.

"Detective, if you do not leave the room right now, I will call security and have you escorted out," Scanlon says.

Perry puts up his hands in surrender and leaves the room.

Jane's blue eyes burn into the doctor.

"Mr. Jane, I know you're frustrated right now, but please trust me – this is for the best. Your mind and your body need time to recover. The detective will come back when you're stronger. For now, just try to get some rest. I'll have Roberta come fix that IV, and then she'll give you something to help you sleep…All right?"

Jane doesn't say anything. Dr. Scanlon sighs and walks out. Jane waits thirty seconds, then climbs out of bed and tiptoes across the room. Moving stealthily on stocking feet, he nudges the door open.

A uniformed police officer is standing guard directly outside. He raises his eyebrows at the sight of Jane. "Everything all right, Mr. Jane? Do you need something?"

"No…No, I'm fine…" Jane shrinks back into the room.

He returns to the bed and sits on the end, staring at the closed door.

_Change of plans_, he thinks.

III.

When Nurse Roberta comes in, just before midnight, Jane smiles sweetly at her. He holds his arm out so she can check his blood pressure, and agrees to take his two purple pills without a fuss.

After Jane has finished his cup of water, Roberta plumps his pillow fondly.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asks.

"No, no, I'm happy as a little clam."

Roberta smiles sadly, making the weight in Jane's chest feel heavier than ever. He coughs a little, trying to clear it.

The nurse looks down at him in concern. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes. I'm fine."

"Well, you know Officer Dunn is right outside, if you need anything. And my friend Fran will be on duty in a few minutes – she'll take good care of you."

"I'm sure she will."

Roberta moves to the door, then hesitates, looking back at Jane with far more worry and sorrow than a few minor scrapes and bruises should warrant. "Good night, Mr. Jane," she says softly. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Roberta…" Jane lets his eyelids droop and smiles like a little boy.

The red-haired nurse melts into a puddle and quietly slips out the door.

Jane counts to thirty before reaching under the mattress. There, he carefully deposits the purple pills next to the two she gave him earlier. Next stop: Officer Dunn. Jane wheels the IV pole over to the door and pokes his head out meekly. "Um, Officer?"

The policeman looks up from his newspaper. "Yes?"

"Could you come in here for a minute?"

The officer frowns. "I'm really supposed to stay out in the hall, Mr. Jane. What is it you need?"

"Oh, I just…" Jane heaves a long, melodramatic sigh. "I just wanted some company, that's all…"

Officer Dunn looks at his watch, and then scans the empty hallway. He sighs. "All right. Just for a minute." He follows Jane into the room and perches awkwardly on a small plastic chair.

Jane plops down on the bed. "Can I see your badge?" he asks.

The officer's eyes narrow. "What for?"

Jane shrugs. "Just wanted to look at it…When I was little, I used to always dream of being a cop. Had one of those 'Sheriff' stars and everything, but after a while the gold shine wore off. It was just yellow plastic underneath…" He gives a wistful laugh. "Bet the real thing's much nicer."

Officer Dunn sighs and fishes out his badge.

Jane smiles. "Oh, yes," he says, taking the gleaming badge and tilting it back and forth in the light. "This is the genuine article, right here…Look at that shine…Isn't it beautiful, the way it sparkles?"

"Yeah…" Dunn agrees. "It's pretty…"

Ten minutes later, Jane is stepping off the elevator on the first floor. The stolen scrubs he's wearing are a vast improvement over his drafty hospital gown. The money he swiped from a bleary-eyed intern is a comforting lump in Jane's pocket. On the way out, he spies several plastic containers of cafeteria food, sitting uneaten in a sleeping patient's room. Jane sneaks in and grabs two of the containers.

No one looks twice at him as he walks through the sliding glass doors and out into the night.

Jane walks two blocks before hailing a cab. The driver gives him an odd look, and Jane thinks it might be because of the bright pink scrubs. A thick green wad of cash, dropped right in the cabbie's lap, gets the man over his staring problem.

Jane gives the address and climbs in. There is no music coming from the speakers, and the cab driver is silent as they pull away from the curb. Jane carefully balances the food containers on his lap and peeks under their lids – scrambled eggs in one, red Jell-O in the other. No utensils in either.

The cab rumbles along, and Jane sits in the back, shoveling handfuls of egg into his mouth like he's trying to fill a mile-deep hole. Every so often, he catches the driver's eyes, watching him in the review mirror. Jane finishes off the scrambled eggs, and turns to stare out the dark window.

Miles and scenery roll past, faint outlines in the moonlight. The cab crests a hill, and Jane sees the first sparkling glimpse of ocean.

_You were found on the beach, late last night…_

Jane's foot begins to tap the floor.

Another turn, and the headlights wash over familiar trees, familiar mailboxes…

_You actually _remember_ going home?_

_I remember walking across the parking lot. I remember getting in my car, and then…_

And then…

His foot taps harder.

When they get to the house, the cabbie starts to pull into the driveway.

"No, no," Jane tells him. "Just stop here."

The brakes squeak and Jane gets out, leaving the red Jell-O untouched on the seat. He waits until the cab is long gone, just two tiny glowing eyes, disappearing in the darkness, before heading up the winding drive.

IV.

The wind is strong and cold, flapping the loose scrubs against his body. Jane shivers as he walks. A small piece of yellow plastic skitters down the driveway, scraping loudly against the cement before tumbling end-over-end across the lawn.

Up ahead, Jane can see his Citroen, parked safe and sound – no broken glass or bent fenders. His wife's car is there, too, looking every bit as pristine. The house itself is totally dark. Looming tall and silent, it looks more like barren cliff than a place where people live. Jane moves to the front door.

He doesn't have his key; but of course, he knows where they keep the spare. Jane picks his way around to the ocean side of the house. The wind is even angrier over here, blowing sand in his eyes and whipping his hair into a frenzy. Jane stoops low, retrieving the key from a secret hook underneath the deck. A strong smell is coming off the water, making the air taste of seaweed and surf...

And smoke.

Jane freezes. He closes his eyes and sniffs deeply. No, there is no smoke. No fire. Only a cold metal key in his hand. He takes the key back to the door, but his fingers hesitate, trembling in front of the lock. Jane isn't sure what he's afraid of, isn't sure what he's expecting to find, here. It's clear no one's home…

He turns the key with a decisive _clack_ and cracks the door. Echoing silence and oppressive darkness greet him on the other side. Jane flicks on the lights. The first thing he sees is his daughter's tricycle, its glittery tassels hanging limp. He breathes hard, staring at it.

Jane remembers this, from last night. He remembers gently steering it out of his path, and he remembers smiling. For some reason, he remembers smiling…

He reaches out to finger the tassels, and his words to the cab driver come back like a shadow of warning: _Just stop here._

Jane shudders.

Leaving the sparkling strands behind, he starts up the stairway. A blue rubber ball sits on one of the steps, about halfway up. Jane leans down, and sees that it isn't actually a ball – it's a blue medical glove, turned inside-out…

It was not here last night. Jane remembers climbing the stairs, and there was no glove. He starts to reach for it, but pulls back at the last second. There is something dark-colored smeared on the glove. And somehow, Jane knows he should not look any closer. Swallowing, he carefully steps over it and continues up the staircase.

Near the top, Jane's feet start to feel like cement blocks. By the time he reaches the upstairs hallway, his breaths are loud and fast, filling the empty air around him. Jane stands at the end of the hall, freezing cold and pouring sweat.

_Stop here_, his brain whispers. _Stop here…_

The bedroom door is ten feet away, shut tight – but something about it doesn't look quite right. Jane blinks, and sees a piece of paper taped to the door. Blinks again, and the paper is gone. Last night, there was a note…

"_Dear Mister Jane…"_

The words falter, flickering in and out of his mind's eye. Jane takes a step toward the closed door, unblocking the flow.

"_I do not like to be slandered in the media…"_

Another step.

"…_especially by a dirty money-grubbing fraud…"_

Step.

"…_If you were a real psychic, instead of a dishonest little worm…"_

Step.

"… _you wouldn't need to open the door…"_

Shaking all over, he reaches for the knob…

"…_to see what I've done…"_

Starts to turn it…

_STOP HERE. STOP HERE. STOP HERE STOP HERE STOPHERESTOPHERE—_

"…_to your lovely wife and child."_

Light pours in from the hallway as the bedroom door swings wide.

"Oh…" Jane sinks to his knees, clutching his chest. "Oh…Oh…"

It's all here – the smell and the gore and the _face_, the horror roaring in his ears like ocean waves, because he _knows_…He finally _knows_…

"_Oh_…"

Jane crosses the threshold on his hands and knees, seeking the bodies, wanting to touch, to hold, just one last time…but his wife and daughter are not here in the dark. They are gone - taken, zipped up, rolled away.

Only the stains are left. Jane crawls over to the smaller one, and lays himself down beside it. He strokes his hand over the spot, again and again, moaning.

After a while, the moans turn into indistinct animal whimpers. The whimpers turn into painful retching. Then, eventually, the sounds taper off altogether, and Jane just lies there in silence, tear-tracks drying on his face, a hot puddle of scrambled eggs slowly growing cold under his left cheek. Just breathing.

Still breathing…

"I thought I'd find you here."

Jane doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink at the sound of Detective Perry's voice.

"You remember everything now, don't you?"

Jane nods slowly, not bothering to lift his head out of the vomit.

"I'm sorry. He should have just let me tell you…"

"No…" Jane whispers. "I had to know…for myself…"

"Fair enough," the detective says softly.

Jane stares at the dried blood pool, tracing the edge with his fingers. The silence stretches long and empty. Breathing…

Detective Perry clears his throat. "Well…I'll be waiting downstairs, when you're ready to get up."

Jane shakes his head, leaking fresh tears. "No…No, I can't…"

"You can," Perry says. "People do, every day."

The floorboards creak gently under his feet as he walks away, leaving Jane alone.

Five hours later, Detective Perry is sitting at the dining room table, watching grey morning light play with white-capped waves. He doesn't say a word as Jane slowly pulls out a chair, and sits down across from him.

V.

For a while, everything happens from a distance. Jane is a spectator, watching himself pick up the phone to call Danny and the others, eavesdropping on the talking and the yelling and the crying from somewhere far away. Jane is up on the ceiling, a bobbing balloon, as he sits at the table, looking at granite samples – all different colors of rock, splayed out in front of him like carpet swatches. He is in another room, looking out at the waves, as he chooses words to be carved into stone.

There are a lot of people at the house, these days. They show up at random times, carrying pans full of lasagna and tuna casserole. People Jane has only met once or twice in his life are here with him now, helping him pack things into boxes, assisting him with tape and Sharpie markers. Sometimes, when he has been standing too still, staring for too long at a particular object, the strangers even make the decision for him: Angela's red shoes, he should donate. Charlotte's purple unicorn, he should keep.

Jane gets used to the people and the constant squawk of duct tape the same way he gets used to the new, strange feeling in his chest. He knows what that feeling is, now. Why he could never cough or clear it away.

Because it's his heart. It's what is left of his heart – a cold lump of charcoal, sitting dead and black between his lungs.

The people at the cemetery tell Jane that the headstones won't be put up until a year after the burial, but Jane isn't sure he'll still be around then. How long can a person survive with a burned-up heart?

The morning of the funeral, Jane sits at the shore's edge in his very best suit. He watches dark water lick white sand, and thinks about crawling in the ocean. Instead, he drives to the cemetery and sits in a metal folding chair, watching two black boxes – one large, one very small – disappear into the ground.

Detective Perry comes to the service. Danny doesn't, but some of the others do. There isn't any music – just soft sniffles and sobs, and the crying tune of gulls, circling overhead. When Jane leaves the cemetery that day, he has no plans to ever come back. They aren't in those boxes. They aren't anywhere, anymore.

After the funeral, the steady flow of visitors becomes a trickle, and then just an occasional drip. Jane pads through the hollow hallways of his house alone, a ghost in a museum. He moves from room to room, restless and searching. More and more often, he finds himself stopping in the bedroom, gazing at that grinning face.

It's the one place he never let any of the strangers go, the one room he insisted on cleaning up himself. And he _did_ clean it. Jane doesn't want to see their violent deaths, splashed all over the room – the story of their suffering, told in streaks and drips and handprints. He can't look at fingernail scratches in the hardwood bedpost, scored so deep he can almost _hear_ the screaming. Those things, Jane got rid of.

But he had to keep _something_.

Jane knows people wouldn't understand his decision. The gruesome smile belongs to Red John, but the blood itself is _theirs_. Charlotte's, Angela's. Drawn after their deaths, the painting is not a testament to their torture – just a testament to _them_. A bright red link to hair he will never stroke again, and a pink tricycle that's already been given away. Scarlet proof that before his wife and daughter died, they _lived_. This is the part Jane wants to keep, the part he can't bear to lose under bleach-soaked sponges and fresh white paint. It is the only part of them he has left.

So, more and more, he visits them there. Whispers to them. Holds his ear against that smiling mouth and waits for them to whisper back…

The lasagnas and casseroles in the fridge slowly turn white, then grey, then fuzzy black, but Jane doesn't bother to throw them out. The kitchen is a waste of his time. So are all the other rooms. It's only the bedroom that he needs. Only the face, painted in their blood.

Which is why Jane panics, one day, when he steps into the bedroom and the face is _gone_.

Just – vanished. Like it never even was. Jane is certain he saw it yesterday. No one else has been in the house for weeks. It cannot be gone. Breathing fast, he squeezes his eyes shut, counts to three, and then opens them again. Bare walls taunt him on all sides.

Jane shakes his head. No. This is impossible. He needs the face. He _needs_ it…

Jane staggers across the room, pressing his hand to the blank spot where the blood should be, sliding his fingers over smooth emptiness. Nothing here. Nothing at all. He rests his cheek against the cold wall and closes his eyes, hot tears spilling down his face. The very last part of them he had left, gone forever…

Inside his chest, the black brick is crumbling. He can feel it falling away, disintegrating into powder, getting swept up in the wind and carried off over the ocean. Gone. Forever_…_

Jane's eyes snap open.

_No._

He grabs the skin of one fingertip in his teeth and _rips_. Shiny blood wells to the surface, and Jane sets his finger to the wall, starting to draw. He can fix it. He can put it back the way it was. They don't have to be gone.

Jane gnaws his bottom lip, concentrating hard as he paints. It has to be just right. It has to be exactly the same. The details, all the little details. But the lines on the wall soon become faint streaks, pale and fading to nothing, like a pen running out of ink. Jane growls. He needs _more_.

There's a lamp sitting on the floor in the corner, unplugged. Jane twists the bulb out frantically and cracks it against the wall like he's trying to make an omelet. Most of the milky glass rains to the floor, but one piece the shape of a shark's tooth remains stuck in the silver base. Jane drives the tooth into the center of his palm and goes back to the wall.

Sweat drips off of him as he works. He wipes it away angrily, trying to clear his eyes. He needs to see. The details have to be right…

Jane steps back, panting, and surveys his efforts. No. All wrong. The slant of the eyes, the roundness of the head, the size of the mouth – wrong, wrong, wrong. He moves to the left, and starts again.

The next three attempts all look worse than the first, and Jane is running out of ink again. He finds the broken bulb and a fresh patch of wall. Every time his hand shakes, the lines turn zigzag, and he has to start all over. The more mistakes he makes, the less blank space he has left. He has to focus. He has to get it _right_…

"Patrick? Are you up here?"

Jane whirls around, wild-eyed.

"It's Mike Shepherd, Julie's dad…They had some leftovers from the school bake sale, and my wife thought –"

The stranger freezes in the doorway. Jane glares at him, frustrated at the interruption. The man's face is tinted red. So is the Tupperware container in his hand, and the hallway behind him – all stained, like looking through red cellophane. The stranger's red eyes get very wide and he drops the Tupperware. The top pops off on impact, and red cookies leap out onto the floor like jumping beans.

"Patrick…w-what are you…?"

"It was gone," Jane explains, feverishly running a hand through his greasy hair. "I don't know what happened, maybe someone washed it in the night – I don't know. But I need it back, and I just can't get it right…" He points at one of the hopelessly flawed faces. "See? See? It's all wrong and I…I'm running out of _space_…" Jane's voice cracks on the last word. His eyes start to flood. He stumbles forward, grabbing the stranger by the shoulders.

"Help me," Jane begs, "_Please_ help me, I'm running out of space…"

The red man nods, taking hold of Jane's dripping hands. "Okay, it'll be okay…We'll get you some help…"

VI.

Four months later, Jane sits on a bed, looking up at the woman who peeled away the red cellophane. Her hair is brown and the walls are padded white.

"Be well," she tells him.

He will try.

The hospital lets him go home, and Jane finds a miniature alien planet growing inside his refrigerator – complete with rolling hills, soupy lakes and green forests. Jane ties a handkerchief over his face while he takes care of the situation. Afterwards, he wonders if he should have just donated the whole thing to science.

Jane goes to the store to buy tea bags and fresh milk, and the cashier smiles at him. He smiles back shakily, just trying it out, seeing how it feels on his face. It will take some time.

Back at home, Jane fills a bucket with hot, soapy water and sets to work on the walls he mutilated. There are over thirty bloody faces smiling at him, their circumferences ranging from a roll of masking tape to a car tire. Some of the expressions are positively goofy – one eye drastically bigger than the other, lopsided mouths and crazy zigzagging heads. He washes them all away. All except the original, which is still in the bedroom, where it always was. Jane wasn't even in the right room, when he went into his Jackson Pollock frenzy.

He can see now, how far gone he was. Doesn't ever want to go that far again. The powdery remnants of his heart are still inside him, enough to keep him breathing, and there's a new message on the wall – two words that only Jane can see, smudged in charcoal black:

**_KILL HIM_**

Jane has many connections in the police department, thanks to his days as a psychic. He knows several deputies, a few sheriffs, even a commissioner – but Jane does not call any of those people. Instead, he calls Detective Perry.

The detective listens thoughtfully to Jane's request, not dismissing it outright, which Jane appreciates. "The state took over the case," Perry tells him. "I can't promise you anything, but I'll make some calls, see if I can get you in."

True to his word, Perry gets Jane a meeting with Virgil Minelli, one of the "higher-ups" at the CBI offices in Sacramento. Jane's first impression of the building is a good one – lots of light, lots of movement, some very cozy-looking couches. His first impression of Minelli brings to mind a grey-muzzled bulldog with a mild ulcer.

By the end of their twenty-minute meeting, Jane knows full well that this old dog is much more likely to lick than bite. Minelli agrees to hire Jane as a consultant, on a trial basis – pending a full background check. After shaking Minelli's hand, Jane heads straight down to the records room, looking for that _one_ special person to bribe, to make sure that a certain hospital stay never makes it into Jane's file.

Two weeks later, Jane starts work. A secretary with curly, spun-gold hair smiles kindly at him, and Jane smiles back. It's not quite so hard, this time.

More hand-shakes – and a few back-thumps – ensue as Jane meets his new team. He watches them all with bright eyes, sizing the agents up, filing away little factoids for future use. Jane flirts, plays, pushes and teases, and it feels like stretching a stiff muscle – achy, but good.

People don't seem to notice the vital absence inside him. Not Minelli, or the agents, or the spun-gold secretary. Not the victims, or even the killers. There is no window into Jane's chest, showing that he has an ugly little pile of black dust, sitting on a shelf, where there should be something alive and beating.

No one knows, and that makes it easier to pretend. The game has always been about confidence. Jane's hands are still rattlesnake-quick. His smile is just as big and beautiful as ever. He hasn't lost his skills, only his heart – which was never that big, or that beautiful, to begin with.

Jane doesn't need it to win over the Serious Crimes Unit. Rigsby, the back-thumper, is an easy conquest – one simple card trick, plus a Snickers bar, and Jane is certain he's made a friend for life. Cho is a bit of a tougher nut, but Jane manages to impress him on the second day with a fancy lock-picking maneuver.

Lisbon, however, remains all cold shoulders. Jane thinks this is because he got her in trouble on their first day together. He feels slightly bad, that she got a reprimand, but Jane doesn't regret his actions. They caught a greedy, lying murderer that day. So what if Jane had to fake a hostage crisis to get the confession?

Lisbon doesn't seem to see things in the same light. Jane uses all of his best smiles on her – "Sweet Little Boy," "Naughty Little Boy," "Prince Charming," and the always-popular "I Am an Innocent Puppy, Why'd You Just Step on My Tail?" He woos her with the awesome powers of his mighty mental fortress. Jane says blatantly inappropriate things at horribly inconvenient moments, just hoping to make her lips twitch – but her eyes remain emerald ice chips, refusing to melt.

He is starting to get the feeling that this is going to be their dance – him pissing Lisbon off, and then grinding her down afterwards until she forgives him. The Redemption Tango. The Forgiveness Foxtrot.

At least, Jane hopes they get to the forgiveness part. Right now, Lisbon's face is looking pretty darn stormy.

She and Jane are supposed to be conducting interviews with the family of a murder victim. The interviews never quite get finished, though, because Lisbon and Jane are escorted from the house and asked not to come back.

Lisbon tromps down the porch steps, silently simmering. Jane frolics beside her, a smile spread all over his face like butter – his patented "Yes, I'm a Bastard, But You Know You Love Me Anyway."

Well, she is feeling the bastard part of it, at least.

"That wasn't funny," Lisbon says tersely, as they begin squelching across the lawn. The sky overhead is still a dreary grey, though the rain stopped an hour ago.

"Oh, come on. It was a little bit funny. Mildly amusing, at the very minimum."

Her eyes spit green sparks. "You can't just go around, being randomly rude to whoever you meet."

"There was nothing random about my rudeness," Jane informs her. "It was very focused."

"You mean you specifically singled out Anthony Greenwich?"

"Absolutely."

Lisbon frowns at him. "Why, because you think he's the killer?"

"No, because I think he's a pompous, sexist bag of wind."

That gets an eye-roll. "_Even_ if that were true – and I'm not saying it is – he's still a human being, and he just lost his sister. There's no need to kick him when he's down."

"He can get back up. People do, every day."

Lisbon shakes her head, skirting an inch-deep puddle on the grass. "You honestly think it's okay to treat everybody like crap, don't you?"

"Not _everybody_," Jane insists. "Just _some_ of the 'body's."

They reach the CBI van, parked way out on the gravel road to keep the driveway clear for mourners. The poor vehicle's true color is buried under caked layers of brown, and Jane is oh-so-glad he didn't drive _his_ car out here…

Lisbon stops in front of the hood and gives him a very serious look. "People deserve to be treated decently, Jane."

"_Decent_ people deserve to be treated decently," he corrects.

"Most people _are_ decent!"

"Come on – you're a cop. You can't honestly believe that."

She appears to actually give it some thought, and then nods firmly. "Yes. Yes, I do. I think that deep down, in their hearts, most people are goo—"

At that moment, a Dodge Ram comes trundling past, sending up a massive spray of congealed mud that pelts them both right in the face. Lisbon stares, wide-eyed, as the truck speeds away, and then she turns to stare at Jane. She looks like some kind of swamp monster – chocolate milk rivulets running down her hair, two bright green eyes peering out from a mask of muck. Jane is sure he doesn't look much better.

For a second, they just look at each other, too shocked to do anything else. Then, at the very same moment, they both burst out laughing. Jane shakes his head like a dog, flinging droplets everywhere. Lisbon yelps and smears a handful right across his vest. They lean back against the slimy hood, spitting and wiping their faces, flicking mud at each other and just _laughing_.

And for the first time, a tiny baby bird, blind and bald, pokes its head up out of the ashes.


End file.
